


Molly kills people

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Double Life, Gen, Murder, it's always the quiet ones, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 07:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13806834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Molly Hooper is a lovely, helpful friend, a ray of sunshine in gloomy London. She also kills people and cannot resist the temptation of gift-wrapping a crime scene for Sherlock.





	Molly kills people

Molly didn't plan it, a murder. When she started thinking about studying medicine, she prepared herself for a disastrous medical error. That was the risk every future doctor had to be aware of and Molly believed she would be able to live with herself after accidentally killing a patient. She never expected that her first real patient would be her own father and that his death would not be an accident at all.

The last stage of his terminal cancer was horrendous. They all knew there was nothing that could be done at that point and making him comfortable was simply impossible. Constant pain and the certainty that the only way out was dying must have been unbearable for Molly's dad and yet he tried his best to be his usual, cheery self for her benefit. If Molly had ever experienced actual anxiety, it was at that time. She would spend hours by her dad's side, keeping him company, but whenever she went out to catch a breath or simply took a shower, she was frightened he would die, alone, scared, without her. She realised there was only one way to ensure that her dad would pass away peacefully and with her holding his hand.

She calmly planned the whole evening. They talked about her childhood, recalled all those blissfully happy times, little Molly's milestones. She made dinner that he barely touched, they watched some telly. She had enough time to thank him for everything he had done for her, hug his frail form for the last time, make him feel loved and cherished. When he fell asleep, she gave him an injection. There was no fear, no tears, he died in his sleep. She lay next to him, stroking his cooling hand and was mildly surprised at the lack of guilt.

No one found his death suspicious. The lack of a fortune to inherit or a year-long family feud made Molly appear innocent. Even if anyone thought she ended his misery, would they condemn her for it?

The next time was different. A friend from grammar school got in touch, after years of silence. Molly remembered him well, he would tease her and open her backpack when she wasn't looking. His charming smile and confidence convinced her to accept his invitation for a drink. Molly couldn't believe it when she returned from the ladies' and her drink suddenly tasted salty. She stopped drinking it and looked at him. He was still smiling, still playing his role. He fell off the stairs. There weren't any signs of a struggle and also no CCTV footage. A tragic accident. Molly cried when she was questioned by the police, unobtrusively. Her delicate features and soft voice made her appear innocent. She was a plain-looking, a bit shy young woman, a romantic type, the last person one would accuse of premeditated murder.

She knew how to hide the evidence and she knew what would alarm the police and forensic pathologists. She knew what would mislead them and what would convince them not to bother, even if something didn't add up. When her abusive neighbour had a heart attack, she didn't spend the entire night cleaning his flat with bleach to hide her involvement. A strikingly clean flat, with no fingerprints and a dead body on the floor, would be a giant red flag. She left her prints and claimed she was a helpful neighbour who would drop by to make sure poor Mr Graham was doing fine. Again, no one questioned her version. She looked like a lovely girl next door, like the least threatening person.

She gained enough confidence to start playing with the clueless detectives. She would leave an easy puzzle for them, a straightforward case with only one small detail that didn't match the story they wanted. A notorious drug addict found dead, a tragic, accidental overdose, no signs of anyone else's involvement, except for teeth marks on his neck, almost deep enough to draw blood. With no evidence of a sexual assault, a vicious bite made no sense. A lovely, frustrating loose thread.

 

Things became complicated when Sherlock entered her life. He was exactly the kind of person who would examine all the evidence very carefully and who wouldn't dismiss a sweet, loving Molly as a suspect. She had to make sure he would feel uncomfortable in her presence, distract him somehow from certain unsolved crimes. It was simpler than she thought. First, she played an infatuated woman who would help him regardless of the consequences, then mentioned her sex life to him. The mixture of guilt, embarrassment and gratitude he felt was a decent distraction.

Sherlock could be a good friend when he really tried. Molly liked him despite his countless flaws, even when it became clear that her new boyfriend was using her to get to Sherlock. She was furious, mostly with herself. She should have known that a man like Sherlock had to have obsessive fans. She considered freeing Sherlock from the unwanted attention but finally decided against it. Poor Jim had no idea his end could've come much sooner. It turned out to be a good choice, Sherlock and Moriarty were so focused on destroying each other that neither of them remembered her.

But she wasn't satisfied. She understood why Moriarty wanted to watch him dance. It was entertaining, seeing Sherlock make deductions and trying to find a pattern where there was none. She wondered how he would attempt to solve a murder she committed. Would he figure out the truth? Or could she convince him with tears streaming down her face that she had been attacked and had no other choice? Sex was the last thing Sherlock wanted and sexual violence had to be the worst kind for him. It'd be so easy to say her victim was about to take advantage of her, Sherlock would be mortified and less focused on the bare facts.

She meticulously prepared the crime scene. A nice, complicated murder, tailor-made for Sherlock. She wondered if a giant sign 'Call Sherlock' would be too much. Once the idea popped into her head, she decided to include a tiny sign pointing to Moriarty. Sherlock would love it and instantly forget about everything else. He was so obsessed with his late nemesis that it'd be a shame not to use it against him.

She estimated when the body would be found and visited Sherlock in his flat then. He would, naturally, ask her to join him and share her wisdom, or more accurately, admire his. It worked out as she expected. Greg rang Sherlock, Sherlock invited her to the scene.

It was like a theatre, a scenography she created. She stood next to Sherlock, glancing at the objects she rearranged, the story she wanted to tell. A simple stab wound to the chest disguised by elaborate post-mortem mutilation. She was curious what Sherlock was going to say about the killer, their motivation.

As Sherlock was staring at the body, she looked around, scaring herself by thinking she had left something incriminating in plain sight. She nearly cried out when she spotted it, her brightly coloured, knitted scarf, barely visible in the dark corner of the room. She suddenly remembered taking it off and never putting it on again. It was on the floor, behind the sofa. Must have fallen off the back of it and that was why she missed it. Amazing that no one saw it. She felt nauseous and excited at the same time. Greg was observing Sherlock, no one was looking at her. She casually crossed the room, bent down to look behind the sofa and picked up the scarf. Her heart was beating so fast her chest hurt. She didn't have any bag with her and her pockets were too small for the scarf. The was no other option, she wrapped it around her neck, over another scarf.

The tension she felt when she turned around was so overwhelming she almost considered running away. Incredibly, no one noticed what she had done. She moved back to her spot behind Sherlock and calmly pulled her coat over her neck, hiding two scarves as best she could.

Sherlock started talking, but she couldn't focus on his words. She doubted he paid any attention to her appearance, yet he could have remembered what she was wearing just ten minutes earlier. She couldn't take the risk. She wanted him to find the clue from 'Moriarty' later, but now she desperately needed a distraction.

'No, it can't be,' she muttered in disbelief, pointing to the victim's hip. She had made sure he was wearing the same underwear as a flirty Jim from IT. From where she was standing, she could see only half an inch of it, but that was something that Sherlock missed. 

She turned to watch his face as it dawned on him. Moriarty?! Moriarty was back? Moriarty was playing a game with him? Could it have been twins after all? A real Jim from IT, a real Rich Brook? 

Greg didn't have a clue about what was going on. 'Sherlock?'

Sherlock looked at him, annoyed and opened his mouth to probably insult him, but then something caught his eye. Molly didn't drop her gaze, although she felt a pang of panic. He noticed there was something unusual about her scarf. He couldn't stop staring, baffled. 

'Well?' Greg said, confused.

Sherlock gave up on deducing Molly's winter wear. He explained the situation to Greg, even the possible message from beyond the grave. The thrill of dealing with Moriarty again overshadowed a bizarre suspicion. Molly bit her lip to stop an incriminating smirk. Sherlock was such an easily-led addict.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 'Complicit' written by Nicci French and 'Bancroft,' that hellish tv series that's much more frustrating than 'Sherlock' (imagine that.)


End file.
